Yes, me, too

Though I am not the type to jump on just any bandwagon, this current ♯METOO movement has compelled me to add my voice to the ever louder chorus of women claiming sexual aggression and assault.  What happened to me is clearly not unique, and my account will not bring down any powerful or famous politician, producer, actor or anchor – hell, many of the perpetrators were not even known to me – but perhaps it will contribute in a small way to a general reckoning of all the despicable abusers out there.

Reading and hearing the never-ending reports by fellow victims has dredged up several very disturbing memories, the likes of which I honestly would have preferred to have kept suppressed.  I will not document the disgusting details but let a list of general offenses suffice: the high school classmate who repeatedly exposed himself; the neighborhood peeping tom; gratuitous groping at college mixers; the guys on the bus in India who rubbed up against me; countless instances of ogling, leering, catcalling, and lecherous comments; and what would now be called date rape although back in the day was not identified as such.

First traumatized as an innocent pre-teenager, I somehow blamed my pubescent self for the incident without remotely understanding what the creep was doing or why he had targeted me.  I didn’t tell anybody because / although I was mortified and sickened, scared and confused.  The society around me was giving completely confusing signals, with the liberal mores of the 70s counteracted by the conservatism of the South where everything that had remotely to do with sex was fraught with guilt and ignominy.  The much sought-after Our Bodies, Ourselves was nowhere to be found in that small Bible-Belt town. I had no chance in this environment with such shit happening to become comfortable with or confident in my sexuality.   

The worldwide tidal wave of confessions has washed in a fundamental feeling of relief as the epiphany hit: I had subconsciously taken responsibility for all the offenses against me throughout all those years.  I had figured it was part of the price of being female, our plight to endure, and in some way believed what was so often hissed in my ear by contemptuous men as they forced themselves on me:  You asked for it! 

But I’ve now realized that I WAS NOT TO BLAME.  That sleazy men have been harassing women forever.  That this abhorrent behavior is ubiquitous.  That it is the product of a universal obscenity on the part of arrogant men who feel entitled to grab pussy and worse.  It is devastating to think of the incalculable toll on the self-esteem of so many women.   Why did we stay silent for so long?

All this has me wondering how many decisions, major and minor, I have made in response to such demeaning male attitudes without recognizing this as the motivating factor?  Attending an all-women’s college, dressing modestly, traveling (or not) to certain destinations, choosing to live in a country where the rate of violent crimes against women is relatively low.  How might my life have been different without the underlying blame and shame? 

My next step in this catharsis is to have the convo with my kids.  I pray to god that my daughter does not have any stories of her own to tell, and trust that my sons have always treated women with respect.  If they and succeeding generations know that such vulgarity will not be tolerated, then there is hope of a very necessary social and cultural enlightenment. 

TRUMP TRAUMA

Pollsters, pundits, politicians, and even the President have been commanding us on the losing side to accept the result, get behind the winner, support Trump as the rightfully elected new “leader of the free world” (gag!).  Their hastily revised message that the law has been followed, the people have spoken, and this is the way it’s always been done – as messy and maddening as it may be – does not at all console me. 

It is as if they are saying, this is democracy at its finest.  Well, I call bullshit, this is a massive failure of democracy.  The US has become a demagoguery!  The system has allowed the election of a hate-spewing, fear-mongering, bigoted, racist, misogynistic, egomaniac with no political experience whatsoever as POTUS. Trump has never had to compromise in a corporate position, either, running his real-estate empire by dictatorial whim.  Will he govern by late-night tweet?  God help us!

Actually, this was exactly why the Electoral College was formed in the first place (in 1787), to protect the fledgling US of A from undue influence by its uninformed, biased, self-interested burghers:

"A small number of persons, selected by their fellow-citizens from the general mass, will be most likely to possess the information and discernment requisite to such complicated [tasks]… the people trusted (them) to cast a responsible vote for president.” Alexander Hamilton declared that the selection of the president should be “made by men most capable of analyzing the qualities adapted to the station.”  (from Wikipedia)

But it long ago became a puppet organization that just mucks up an already uber-cumbersome process.  And today’s EC, with its current winner-take-all policy, has failed us once again; the lackey electors can no longer exercise discernment or responsibility or analytical skills and in effect negate all those votes in their state’s minority.  The federal institution intended to ensure competency in the highest office in the land is basically now controlled by the lowest common denominator of the public: angst.  

Each time I have to explain the Electoral College to the Swiss, who enjoy the most direct democracy in the world, it is painfully clear that it should be dismantled posthaste, but with its Constitutional coat of armor, nobody has had the guts to even attempt to attack a rewrite. 

 

This is by far the most grievous aspect of the 2016 election: Hillary actually won the popular vote!  She received over 3 MILLION votes more, 47.8% to his 47.3%.  And of course she was the infinitely more capable candidate.  If ever personal foibles should have been forgiven and professional aptitude preferred, this was it.  Why can’t Americans be more French and give a laissez-faire shrug to the petty as long as policy is thoughtful?  What difference does it make from whom the head of state is getting head as long as (s)he has the people’s best interests at heart?  Server, schmerver.

Hillz and I share not only a gender but also an alma mater, and I was especially stoked at the idea of a fellow Wellesley alum becoming the first woman prez. And so while I’m ranting, I have to ask: Hey, my smart, savvy, educated, Caucasian sistas – WTF?!?! Tell me these exit poll stats ain’t true! 

·      53% of white women voted for Donald Trump

·      42% of all female voters chose the Republican

·      45% of college-educated white women also voted for him

DJT has gotten away with outlandish, unfounded, malicious claims based purely on his personal feelings towards not just HRC but every minority group.  He polluted the political atmosphere with libelous and scandalous remarks that incited animosity and malice.  We have deviated from the HOPEfulness and positivity (Yes, We Can!) of the Obama era and are to be led for four long years by a deviant whose followers find today’s racially, ethnically, culturally diverse landscape anathema.  The thought of gay marriage, transgender strides, gun control, a mosque in their neighborhood scares the bejesus out of them. 

The hate-induced incidents of blatant discrimination that have been horrifying us since Tuesday are indicative of the country’s current mood and, there’s good reason to expect, harbingers of what is to come. The perps are taking their cue from the top down, from a top dog whose vitriolic bark has penetrated the national consciousness and incited rabid resentment.  And I fear that the leash our system of checks and balances is supposed to provide will not be strong enough to keep the snarling hound from wreaking massive injury to civil liberties across the land.

The international high school students whom I advise here in Zurich are not sure if they want to go to college in the US any more.  Muslim friends in NY are seriously inquiring about the possibility of moving to Switzerland.  Colleagues of color are revising business plans in response to Trump’s xenophobia.  I am grateful that my family in the States, in particular my college-age son and niece on urban campuses, are lily-white Christians (and how dispiriting that such a thought even crossed my mind) – they just need to be sure to keep their ACLU cards firmly in their pockets.  

So it’s a tragic time in America, and those of us who want our government to be inclusive, compassionate, progressive, cooperative, tolerant should be allowed to wallow in our grief.  We need time to process what we truly believed was an inconceivable and preposterous scenario: President Trump. 

I may have emigrated 30 years ago, and even officially (and very reluctantly, thanks a lot, Uncle Sam) relinquished my US citizenship 5 years ago, but I will always be an American at heart – and this heart is in agony. 

Always plenty

At an elevation of over 2200 meters (7300 feet) and surrounded by Himalayan peaks up to 5500 m (18,000 ft), Paro International Airport is considered one of the world’s most challenging. Landing here is only allowed during the day and under good visual conditions.  Just a few skilled pilots from Drukair, the national airline, are permitted to attempt the feat, skillfully navigating the mountains and then dropping down quickly onto the small airfield.  OMG, is that Everest out the window?! 

Landing in Paro

 

Breathtaking Bhutan

If you know anything about Bhutan, a teeny speck of a country squished in between the superpowers of India and China, it’s probably the country’s reputation as the “happiest place on earth” and the “Kingdom of Happiness.” 

I can vouch that the Bhutanese are indeed a wonderfully pleasant folk to be amongst, although – and I don’t mean to quibble here – “happy” is really too Western in its connotation.  Perhaps the better description is serene, or content, equanimous, tranquil, compassionate. The pacifist tenets of Buddhism, the state religion, permeate everyday life here.  A definite annatā (selflessness) is palpable and the culture simply oozes spirituality.  The landscape is dotted with dzongs, the massive, majestic monasteries; festooned with prayer flags crisscrossing the countryside; peppered with prayer wheels, and studded with stupas.  I found the setting very soothing and at this altitude, combined with the exertion of our daily hikes, it figuratively and literally took my breath away.  

 

Apart from their faith, what makes the Bhutanese so “happy”?

Thanks to its remoteness and inaccessibility, the country was until recently effectively cut off from the rest of the world.  But it was this isolation that enabled the country to preserve its identity and keep most of its religious and customs intact, and it is their unique culture that leads to a certain peace of mind.

Of course it is tempting to romanticize such a world.  Those of us fed up with our society’s extreme consumerism and egocentrism are easily enamored with Bhutan’s simpler, easier lifestyle: the unhurried pace of BST (Bhutan Stretchable Time), the traditional architecture and dress (especially the men in ghos and kneesocks), the daily visits to temples and recitation of prayers, the revered monks and nuns in their rich red robes. There are no stoplights in the entire country (nope, not a single one).  The national dish is a comforting concoction of chili and cheese.  The national pastime is archery, a sport that requires slow precision.  Even the lousy roads are a forgivable part of the infatuation. 

It is true that the fourth Bhutanese king introduced the concept of Gross National Happiness as opposed to Gross National Product as an indicator of the population’s general wellbeing in 1972.  The government does actually measure GNH using a metric based on a comprehensive survey administered to a broad sampling of its citizens every two years.  GNH rests on four pillars: good governance, the natural environment, sustainable growth, and cultural values. 

Questions on the 38-page English-language document include:

·      How many people are very close to you that you can count on them if you have emotional problems?

·      How often do you practice meditation?

·      Have you been able to concentrate on what you’re doing?

·      Have you lost much sleep over worry?

·      Do you feel capable of making decisions about things?

·      Do you ever think of yourself as a worthless person?

·      How anxious are you about old-age abandonment?

·      How long would it take you to walk to the nearest healthcare center?

·      Historical literacy: How well do you know local legends and folktales? Names of the 5 kings? Traditional songs?

·      How good is your ecological literacy (names of plants and wild animals in your area)?

·      What indigenous skills (weaving, embroidery, papermaking, carving, etc) do you have?

·      How important is the Bhutanese code of etiquette and conduct?

·      Do you have a balanced use of time?

·      How strong is your sense of belonging to your local community?

·      How many yak do you own?

·      How much do you trust your neighbors?

·      How safe do you feel when walking alone after dark from ghosts and spirits?

·      Ecological resilience: Did soil erosion or landslide significantly affect your property in past 12 months?

·      How do you mostly dispose of household waste?

·      What kind of toilet facility does your household use?  

Such is the importance placed on tourism these days that our guide Tashi could call the government office and pass on our request for a talk with the “minister of happiness” (whose official title is Chief Program Coordinator in the Development Cooperation Division).  The very next night, Rinchen came to our hotel with his PowerPoint presentation and cheerful confidence in the federal efforts to ensure  psychological and physical wellbeing.

An endearing, personable individual, he handed out his business card to each in the group and encouraged us to contact him with any questions we might have on the topic.  He then stayed on for dinner and photo opportunities and a glass of ara, and even gave me his commemorative royal pin. 

Rinchen and me

But can nirvana be calculated?  It is undoubtedly a lovely concept, and while the government seems sincere in its concern for the welfare of its people, such a holistic measurement is entirely subjective.  So? What’s wrong with that? Pessimistic critics claim that “happiness” can be defined as the politicians see fit, and the criteria can even be manipulated to suit their needs.  They say that GNH emphasizes spiritual and karmic factors over material and economic, that it is unscientific and lacks mathematical precision.  

Well, I say phooey! to the bah-humbug types at the OECD.  Perhaps GNH is exactly what should be foremost in driving development. 

Never enough...

Has the icy winter wind got your shoulders hunched?  The short, dark days got you in the doldrums?  The holiday stress got your knickers in a twist?  Join the kvetchfest: 
 
Of course there’s never enough money.

The house is never nice enough

Neighborhood never exclusive enough

Lakeview never expansive enough

Diamonds never brilliant enough

License plate number never low enough

Waistline never small enough

Thighs never slim enough

Breasts never perky enough

Six-packs never defined enough

Children never disciplined enough

Husbands never attentive enough

Wives never understanding enough

Teachers never dedicated enough

Students never respectful enough

Employees never flexible enough

Bosses never generous enough

Putzfrau never thorough enough

Labels never designer enough

Driver in front never quick enough to go when light turns green

Cashier never scans products fast enough

Pedestrians don't cross the street fast enough 

In Zurich, it’s just never enough…

A new campaign by the city authorities -- how pathetic is it that they have to remind us to be friendly?!

The sad and happy chore of bringing a child to college

The scene at the airport was a heart-twister: Luca’s twin sister’s face contorted with the supreme forlornness of separation from the person with whom she’d shared the womb and so much since.  As she clung to him in a symbiotic clutch, I was tempted to irrationally call the whole college thing off.  

His big brother was there, too, proud and misty-eyed.  Their relationship was long fraught with a disdainful leniency but eventually blossomed into a mutually respectful fraternal bond.  His two best friends had also come to see him off, awkwardly bumping fists and knocking shoulders, eventually even slinging arms around each other: “Mach’s guet.” 

 

The fact that my second son has headed off to study in a land far, far away – even though it is the country of my birth and the actual city in which I myself forged unforgettable college memories – makes me sadder than I could have imagined.  The Atlantic Ocean has never felt so wide or the six-hour time difference such an impediment.   The 6,017 kilometers (3,739 miles) between here and Boston today seem insurmountable though I’ve made that flight countless times over the past 30 years with nonchalance.  

In reality I was nowhere near ready for this next, natural step in the growing-up process.  And as I watched him sleeping in the hotel room we shared ahead of move-in day, he appeared so young and vulnerable that it was all I could do not to scoop him up and flee protectively back to 2005. 

But I could neither go back in time nor stop it and soon we were unpacking, setting up his dorm room, making one final shopping run to get forgotten items.  Embarking on an exhaustive orientation program that was often rather disorienting in its intensity.  The parents of the first-years all attempting to convince and console one another with talk of the wonderful opportunities, the nurturing environment, all the support services offered at the school.  How our children will doubtless manage the challenges maturely -- and how we’ll be spared dealing with most of the less wise decisions they may make.  I know that mine will be learning all manner of fascinating things: classroom knowledge, life lessons, and street smarts – all equally valuable – and that this is a priceless exercise in independence.  But still.

Luca made me promise not to be emotional about it and orchestrated our farewell to take place on a busy sidewalk in the midst of rush-hour pedestrian traffic. I could hardly speak for the lump in my throat but what was there to say in this moment?  Which words would’ve been appropriate, anything but trite?  I hugged his skinny frame hard and cupped the prickly back of his newly shorn head.  I don’t know how I possibly let go of him but of course I had to, and as soon as I had turned away the tears started flowing.  

There may well be another 2 million mothers currently going through the same distress but this is scant solace.  What I want to know: How does our society survive the strain on all those maternal souls each September? 

A former English professor of mine, in sharing his own experience of relinquishing his daughter to the transformative forces of the American higher education system, wrote in U.S. News & World Report:

 “…the parent’s tears and the child’s are not quite the same.  For the child, those welling eyes signify anxiety, fear, incipient homesickness.  The parent suffers sympathetic versions of all of these, but something else as well.  For the parent, they are the tears of loss and momentousness, the tears that attend all the great rites of passage and honor the relentless one-wayness of time.”

Indeed. 

Back in the Land of Milk and Money

 Many of you asked me to continue with this blog rather than starting a new one; I’m happy to oblige and spare you the hassle of bookmarking a new URL… So my travails will continue here, hope you’ll continue to find them intriguing. 

Hardly had I begun to adjust to being back in Zurich than a nettlesome restlessness overcame me.  After just three weeks of office time, sitting on my duff and staring at my computer screen, I clearly needed to get out of Dodge for a while.  Plus, a record hot summer in a city with scant air conditioning is really no fun.  Circumstances conspired to enable a whole week’s escape from the steaming asphalt and chilling stresses of the urban work world, and after briefly considering a beach vacay in the Mediterranean, I opted instead for a good ol’ Swiss summer sojourn: to the mountains.

So yay, a mini road trip! 

After driving west for less than 2 hours, I cross the Röstigraben, the linguistic – cultural – culinary – temperamental divide between the Germanic and the Romandie regions. Within 100 meters grüezi becomes bonjour, and this in the same country!  This is truly one of the things I love most about Europe – now if we could just get rid of that pesky currency and revert to a myriad of pesos, lire, schilling, marks, guilder, dinar and the like. 

I cruise through the picturesque landscape that tourists, marketing mavens, and locals alike love: rolling hills of green grass dotted with dark-timbered farmhouses, thick bales of golden hay, and black-and-white dairy cows. Red carnations in window boxes as far as the eye can see.  Snow-tipped mountains (biggest over 4K) as backdrop. Pass the cheese-producing areas of Gruyère and Emmental, the vineyards of Yvorne and Aigle, and arrive in the idyllic, beautifully preserved village of Vers-l’Église in the Vaudoise Alps.

A dear friend has generously lent me her über-charming chalet and I revel in my alone-time to spend 7 days

reading writing hiking

hiking reading writing

writing hiking reading

Back in my travel togs, with only myself to answer to, I am once again free of the responsibilities of reality and the respite is particularly sweet in the cool relief of 1200 meters.  I even unintentionally have a day of silence (try it some time, does wonders) and soon feel the tension melting away like the ice from the local glacier.